


and of the world, godhood

by Voidromeda



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angels, Demons, Experimental Style, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voidromeda/pseuds/Voidromeda
Summary: For as long as Shiro can recall, the mountains have hung over them all - imposing, menacing, and nothing like anything else around them within this dying world. There are rumours that surround it, yet no one is brave nor strong enough to venture up to it and come back to tell the tale; his world is a world overrun with fear, of a constant survival against the creatures that live beyond the town. He hopes, perhaps someday, that he will grow the courage to venture up there himself.He wishes to know: why is it that no one speaks of the mountains? What is it that lives up there?Is it truly God? Or is it the Devil himself?There is but one way to find out.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	and of the world, godhood

**Author's Note:**

> An extremely [self-admittedly] strange experimentation and story I wanted to write. I will, hopefully, come up with actual author's notes as to what any of this means or why I wrote this, but for now I'm going to link the music I listened to while writing this:
> 
> [Archangel Battle (Law Mix)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6nQEUh0RIs), [ Archangel Battle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1qS9LMuK8M), [SMTIV - Law Theme](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dg_uVEd-ApE), [SMT Law Compilation.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3nvjStXKKM)
> 
> I recommend NOT listening to these while reading.

For as long as Shiro can remember, the mountains far up north have always been foggy and thick with smudge, coated in something that does not look like snow or grass. It is the area of what one will call “endless worship” – a God lives up there, people whisper, a God that may or may not listen to one’s requests, but there is very little merit in what everyone has to say of the creature that resides within the mountains. Far up north, with tips that peak up and pierce through the clouds, looking sharp yet curved all the same, Shiro is left to wonder what is up there. God? Or the Devil?

He lives in what the books of yore call ‘an apocalyptic scenario’, or a ‘post-apocalypse’ – he has yet to learn what is what. Initially, he assumes this world is ‘dystopic’ upon first reading it in what is now known as dictionaries though it takes him several re-reads to understand what it really means. Post-apocalypse is the world he thinks he lives in, where the land is a dull green and the grass is far too long. Trees hang with extremely low branches and heavy fruits. Large, overgrown vegetables infect the smaller farms, quick to rot if they are not placed within shoddy refrigerators.

The soil is rough and near-fetid, the dirt a shade of brown so dark that it is near nauseating to look at. Yes, this world is nothing but a husk of the world before – of the landscapes he sees in frayed, torn paintings, all speaking of stories he never finds and of history long-erased. Whatever history books there are have all been torn apart, leaving few pages and little information to give. This world is a grave one, indeed.

Yet it is in this world that he sees brilliance all throughout. He knows of _some_ of the struggles of the generation of yore – all struggles that he can never understand nor relate to, but struggles nonetheless – and he finds himself grateful for the barrenness of this world. There is not much organization in this world, that is found in the one before – though there are villages, there are towns, there are farmsteads – but nothing grandiose. On a much smaller scale, this world is Shiro’s home.

And in his home, within this small village, no one has gone up to the mountains that hang above them all.

Rumours are quick to spread – _there are a group of demon hunters,_ people claim as they huddle behind fading talismans and charms to protect them all. Someday, sometime soon, Shiro believes that they will all fall and be devoured – one by one – by the demons that roam outside. _I hear that some of them will do it for a price – a slice of bread, a few coins, and maybe they will come and save us. Some of them will do it out of just the goodness of their hearts._

Shiro wonders if a demon hunter has ever gone up into the mountains.

He works on his parents’ farm – wades into sparkling water and rips out rice, climbs up trees to pick their fruits, and removes weeds and unwanted plants wherever he seems them. His gloves are worn with overuse, but he doesn’t need to buy any new ones any time soon. Days pass by, all of them blurring into the same. He is only centimetres away from each prior location, each plant wetting and dirtying the gloves upon his hands. This repetitious activity does not bore him, nor does it entertain – it just is, it exists, and it is work that needs to be done. The makeshift clock tower ticks, ticks, ticks, dragging those with effervescent personalities within the morn and driving all those neurotics within their homes.

Something new happens, during one of the many days that melt together into work, work, work. Demon hunters come to their town – the nicer ones, from what Shiro can tell. They come, renew the wards and talismans that keep all of the foul creatures at bay, give to the makeshift militia some weapons, and then make their leave.

Before they do, however, Shiro makes sure to ask the so-called leader, “what is it that lives in the mountains? Why does no one speak of it?”

And the answer he gets is less than satisfying; “there is a being up there, a being that we should not interfere with.”

Their village enjoys peace and prosperity for a while longer but Shiro spends his nights staring up at the mountains and wondering why it is that no one bothers to explore it. One night, while his parents and grandparents are slumbering and the moon is full in the sky, casting its silvery light upon everyone, he pilfers supplies and his family’s old weapon, takes his journal with him, and puts them all within a bag and leaves.

The next morning is hectic with a panic that Shiro will never see.

Demons roam the world now, and have for a while. Though if one is to pinpoint _when_ they begin to wander and pillage, there will be no answer given. How long have demons been here? For as long as anyone can remember; before the villagers settle and take ruins and remnants of cities, demons are there. Before there are farms, towns, and many of the things that mark ‘civilisation’, demons are there. Errant angels may be seen from time to time, but even they are aggressors. They care not for whether demon, human or another angel – they care only to unleash some sort of ungodly rage.

They are like the bulls from stories, where criticism and defenses can be read of ‘bull-fighting’; what a bull is, the people of this world do not know. All pictures are smudged and dirty. To even try and piece together their appearance is a fool’s errand.

But that is none of Shiro’s concern, not anymore. Literacy, as blessed as he is to have it, will not aid him here. Instead, he will have to rely on his wits hopefully gained from all of his reading and the strength he builds from farming. The sword in his hand is not blessed, but it has been rubbed with ointment that will not fade and will allow for self-defence. There is no guarantee it can kill.

Survival is the only thing Shiro has to focus on now.

Despite the general dirtiness of the world, there are puddles and rivers of water that are clean and almost shimmering. They are of the extremely specific snowfalls that happen only on small areas, their waters always fresh and cold – they soothe his throat whenever he gets the opportunity to refill his waterskin. Drink will not be an issue, though food will be – there is no guarantee that once he runs out that the fruits nearby will not be poisonous.

During the time that the demon hunters visit, they reveal that demon meat is not dangerous to the body though the taste is ‘one that must be acquired.’ He hopes he does not have to resort to such a means, however. There is a pendant around his neck, one that may hopefully repel the lesser demons – a silver chain with a thick, sky blue circle hanging from it, which within there is a deep azure circle that contains an aquamarine triangle.

The hunters that give to them these talismans say that it is a lesser charm with the image of a far more powerful spell, one that will last villagers a while if any of them are unfortunate enough to step outside the protective barrier. The more intelligent, stronger demons and angels, those who still retain some semblance of self-control, have their own homes – many of them rather not bother with combat. Shiro finds that hard to believe. He finds it even harder to disprove.

Up in the mountains is where his destination lies, however, and whether or not he can defend himself is secondary to the mounting curiosity.

It will be a lie for Shiro to say that traversal of the woods outside of the village is easy. It will be an extreme understatement to say it is difficult, as well. Arduous, tedious, and frightful – he goes from confident to quickly becoming a paranoiac. Many of the creatures do not take kindly to him trespassing within their territories, and his talisman cannot ward them all off; there are slashes across his older clothes, those of which he puts away within his pack and has to change within a tall, thick bush. What he wears this time is leather, taut and thicker than his plainclothes, and they endure some of the blows better than his normal clothes.

He thinks, first, that he will be able to sneak by – unseen and unheard, but there are many, and he is but one. He will have new scars to bear when he returns home.

The world outside of their own, once what seems to be an industrialized and sprawling city, is now rubble overtaken by vines and plant life, trees with thick trunks and dark, hanging leafs fill the area. Their branches hang so low that they brush against him constantly, crawling over him and stroking his face like a withered grandparent’s caress. Each drag of the leafs across his skin makes his stomach churn.

Throughout his trek, as he grows ever closer to the mountains, the density of the trees lessen. The pathway that leads up to the mountain is, unexpectedly, clear; there are no stumps surrounding the entryway, no bushes, nothing but grey rock and a winding path – coarse and rough – leading up towards the peak. It will be a long hike.

His boots are barely sufficient for the trek, but Shiro continues on regardless. He has already gotten this far. The air grows heavier and heavier the long he climbs upwards, and there is a mist that gathers the further along he goes. Thick and heavy, so dense that he cannot see anything but his feet below, he marches.

The air sinks into him. He exhales. The muscles in his legs scream the longer he goes. He climbs, and climbs, and climbs. His stomach growls over his lack of food. His throat turns raw and sticks to itself in protest of his empty waterskin. His feet shuffle. He places a hand upon his chest, shakily inhales, and gasps – wheezes, coughs and chokes. The mist wraps around him and lays him down to the rough floor, and his mind goes blank.

He awakes upon a bed – plush and comfortable – inside what seems to be a wood cabin. Bright, colourful and vibrant is what the wood seems – they are not as dark as soot, nor as gnarled as the trees outside. They are not twisted and disgusting, covered in mildew that never goes away. All of the trees are sick, diseased, but none of the fruits are affected. No one knows why. No one will ever know why. He sits up and the blanket falls, revealing to him an outfit unlike that of back home – long, hanging sleeves cover his body, the cuffs draping like shawls across the bed; his shirt splits with a small V-neck, his talisman sitting snugly in the middle of his exposed skin. Black trousers adorn his legs, loose and comfortable.

Someone changes him out of his leather armour, ragged and dirty as they are now with his trek. When he looks to his left, he sees his old plainclothes – they are as good as new, almost as if they never suffer damage in the first place. He reaches over to stroke over cloth turned untouched, his fingers tracing over where cuts are to be. There are no tears, only solidity beneath his roughened fingertips.

The door to his room opens. He raises his head, and his eyes widen upon the sight before him. A thin humanoid steps through – with eyes wide and lavender, his pupils golden in stark contrast to every other human, and where white should be instead is a blackness that surrounds his iris. His golden wings furl to allow him passage through the door as he takes a small step in. Dark, chainmail armour adorns his slim body, with a short, grey poncho draped over his shoulders and around his neck. A messy mop of black hair adorns his head, giving to him an almost boyish look. There are very few white and golden stray locks among the black.

He stares down at Shiro with his violet gaze, his wings uncurling immediately to spread and reveal its many layers – like multiple bird wings all stacked up each other, stretching out and taking up a few metres. The humanoid before him stands tall, taller than Shiro perhaps, and his breath catches in his chest.

“You are an angel, aren’t you?” Shiro asks.

The being takes a step closer. His wings flap once and the gust that follows is enough to knock the blanket off of Shiro and to send his hair flying upwards into the air. He shields his face from the bite of the wind with his arms, wincing as he stings nonetheless.

“Not quite,” the being says, his voice of holy mantras and rough smoke, of fog and shimmering sun, and Shiro tenses, “not really. I am close to them in appearance, but I am more than that. And you are of man, are you not? I have not seen a kind, sane-face in many, many epochs. Would you like some tea?”

The being allows Shiro to refer to him by, bizarrely, a human name – Keith, he says, is his name. He gives to Shiro no last name, and he gives to Keith only his nickname. He does not push Shiro any further, and instead takes him to a separate room where he urges Shiro to sit and rest. He makes for Shiro tea, but is silent otherwise. The quiet unnerves him, makes his hand jitter and shake as he lifts up fragile porcelain and he nearly burns his tongue upon scalding hot liquid. They sit in extended silence – neither warm nor friendly, but frigid and uncertain. Keith stares at him, observes him. His eyes roam him like a painting to be studied. He almost wheezes.

He finishes his tea, sets his cup down, and then flushes with overwhelming embarrassment when his stomach growls loudly. When his hunger is apparent, Keith leaves and comes back soon with food that he has never seen before. He asks for their names and gets no answer besides a non-committal shrug. When he thirsts, Keith gives to him cold water. When he is done eating, Keith brings for him fruits and vegetables to eat. He brings for him dessert in the form of pineapples and watermelons.

“Why do you show me such kindness?” Shiro asks once he is done and feeling full, his stomach heavy with the sensation. “Any other demon or angel would have asked me to leave their home and barred me entry. I am a trespasser. Why?”

Keith looks away for a second. His wings are furled up once more, out of the way and out of sight. Shiro wishes to touch them, but knows better than to request such a thing. He simply eyes Keith and waits for his answer.

“It’s lonely up here,” he finally responds with, an edge to his voice that is sharper than a knife, “there are not many who came up here, many years ago. And there are no longer any who come up here. I’ve but scared them all away.” Keith laughs, bitter and jeering, and Shiro furrows his brow. “I have slain many angels and demons who wander here, and even stray adventurers gone mad for one reason or another. But there are also many whom I have brought back to life. I wonder what became of them, and if they ever grew to resent me for their second chance.”

Shiro frowns, “and why would they hate you for such a thing? Is it not a boon to be given the opportunity to try again?”

“Oh, son of man, you really have not changed. Whether it is you, or another, you all think in hopefulness and positives. Can’t you see any reason as to why a resurrected being would despise their life back?”

He opts not to answer. Keith smiles sardonically at him. “Yes, that is a question best not answered, isn’t it, son of man?” Shiro licks his lips and purses it, continuing his own silence. Keith nods, satisfaction clear upon his handsome countenance. “Shiro,” he says, almost a purr, as though to test his name out once more, even though he says it once already, “tell me, what brings you up here, especially when the world is so dangerous outside to humans defenceless as you?”

The smile on his face is hard to read, the glimmer in his eyes indecipherable – he looks through Shiro with a golden glow in his gaze, contrasting roughly with the lavender of his eyes. He stares back, unable to tear his eyes away from Keith’s. “I wanted to know what was up within the mountains,” Shiro admits softly, a confession pulled straight from his chest, “I wanted to see something new – I wanted to know why no one ever talked about the mountains, or the being that seemed to live here.” Unspoken thoughts flow free from his lips, his mind screaming and his heart slamming against his ribcage. “I wasn’t dissatisfied with my life, nor upset – I just wanted to learn. I wanted to know what lies beyond the barrier around us. And so, I’ve met you.”

Keith grabs the dainty handle of his own teacup, his drink still hot despite the time that passes. He takes a sip of his tea. “And so you have, Shiro. And so you have.”

What he assumes is a small cabin turns out to be far more than that. He learns of it when he tells to Keith all that he reads down below, recounting to him the many worn and destroyed books. Keith leads him through many rooms and then brings him to what he explains to Shiro is called a library – to him, it is a place to store the many books that humans have written, in all kinds of languages, all perfectly preserved with a thin sheen of gold. To Shiro, it is a paradise of knowledge, of growth.

“May I read them?” he asks.

Keith nods. “Don’t spend too long in here,” he says, “you have to eat and drink eventually.” he then leaves Shiro to his devices. The door clicks shut behind him as Keith makes his exit without any further word from Shiro. He searches until he finds the books he is capable of reading. There is no silence within the library, not completely – he can hear chanting, soft and almost inaudible, while piano plays. It soothes him and keeps him company while he reads, acts as the background noise where with Keith – thanks to his standoffish nature – there is almost none.

He learns of religion, what it means to be religious, of the many religions that come and go, and some which stay. He learns of the wars that are committed, for reasons he cannot wrap his head around, and learns of countries he will never visit within this lifetime or the next. Names he cannot pronounce, sciences, so many things – he finds himself overwhelmed, trying to read every single book that can further explain what is assumed to be common knowledge in the others.

Hunger and thirst, alongside exhaustion, stop him. He does not get far, not that any human can within a single day. It is unreasonable to assume so. Keith finds him just as he is about to stand to leave.

“I made you something to eat,” he says, “don’t take too long.”

The chanting and the piano come to a stop the moment Keith steps into the room. Shiro stares at him, his heart beating loud enough for it to echo within his ears, and he swallows. Keith watches him, returning to Shiro his own medicine. He opens his mouth to apologise about the disarray of the books on the table next to the armchair but when he looks down he sees nothing but a plain, empty surface. The books are all already back in their places.

Keith gives him a blade when he is about to leave – it is small yet ornate one, a deep, dark purple in colour with a single amethyst at its hilt. “It will keep you safe.” he reassures. He opens the door leading back outside and Shiro takes a step out the door only to find himself at the bottom of the mountain, back at the pathway. He turns to look behind him, and there is no cabin. There is no Keith. There is only Shiro, his bag, his supplies, and now his new weapon in hand. It hums with energy beneath his grip. He can only imagine what it is made of, and why it is that it will keep him safe.

The way back is… easier than before. The dagger that Keith gives him can cut through almost anything – though it cannot shield him entirely from physical blows, magic cannot effect him as it seems to almost drain the energy into itself. Demons with thick hides are cowering within moments and then quick to flee when Shiro backs up, overwhelmed. Angels see the weapon in his hand and wail, then immediately leave without him attempting to do anything.

He arrives back to the town only to surprise everyone when he returns safe and sound, yet with scars where before there are none. He makes sure to hide the weapon as to keep the town from asking questions, though he knows not why he conceals it. His parents and grandparents break into tears upon seeing him again and they berate him for being gone for many days, and Shiro cannot apologise enough.

His desire to go back up to the mountain and meet with Keith festers beneath his skin.

He hears chanting during moments where he is alone. He hears piano during moments where he is with others. He hears both as he works. He can hear humming that is not his own.

When Shiro decides to leave this time, he makes sure to inform his family. They are against it, as he expects, but they cannot stop him and his wants and they simply beg for him to be safe. He takes his bag with himself, takes the old weapon from his family just for comfort and the weapon from Keith because he knows better. He takes just enough food to keep him going and to allow him to go long periods of time without eating so that his family will not be lacking in meals. He keeps the clothes from Keith tucked underneath his bed.

Those are clothes meant for people better than him. Shiro has no need to wear them.

With all of his supplies ready and prepared to go, Shiro prays to whoever that will listen that his trek back to the mountains will be just as effortless as the one to go back home. He says his goodbyes to his family once more, promises to be safe, and leaves at the first sight of sunrise. A dim, orange hue overtakes this filthy earth. There is no beauty to be found here. Shiro closes his eyes as he steps out through the barrier and back into the untamed dangers that awaits them all.

He knows not that his promise of safety will soon be broken.

Even if a soldier is given a weapon, if they are untrained they are weak and vulnerable. Shiro is a farmer, not a member of the demon hunters’ organisation or the makeshift militia of their town. He knows not how to properly wield a weapon, but he knows how to fight back and wrestle if need be. There are some monsters that madness blinds them even to the greatest of dangers, and it is in the final stop before parting to the clearing before the mountains that Shiro is attacked by a foul beast. A large thing, way larger than any other demon or angel he has seen, pounces upon him, knocks him down and Keith’s weapon out from his hands, and it is in that struggle for his weapon and for survival that Shiro finds his arm torn clean off.

Muscles and ligaments tear, bones broken beneath crushing grip as they are forced out and his limb ripped away like wet paper. He shrieks and, with his remaining arm, grabs at the knife he crawls towards and swipes it at the beast’s thick neck. Neon green fluid splashes all over him as he slits its throat and kills it, and he rolls over onto his stomach and curls up. With aching knees and a singular arm, he crawls out towards the clearing.

Keith waits for him there, with wings spread and slivers of light filtering through his feathers. His expression is unreadable. “Oh, Shiro.” he says softly. “Close your weary eyes, for when you open them you shall be safe once more.”

It is not too difficult to obey. He loses his consciousness upon the sign of life.

Once more, he awakes upon the plush bed. He awakes in clothes that are loose and comfortable, yet too soft and expensive for a person like him. He awakes realising he has two arms once more. When he looks down to where there should be an empty sleeve, he sees an arm made of onyx and silver, woven together with thistle-purple energy shimmering through the intricate arm. It is thinner than his flesh arm, but it is just as functional if not clunky to move – he feels like an elegant statue covered by a renowned artist, one who disappears shortly after.

The door opens to reveal Keith once more – unchanged, still in the same attire as before. Just as beautiful, just as graceful. His expression looks, almost, to be in a scowl – though Shiro learns, over time, that that is merely Keith’s neutral face.

“Your arm,” Keith says, “you don’t know what it means, do you?”

He looks back at the jewellery of an arm he has now, then looks back up at the angel-being that stands before him. “No,” Shiro says, “but I know it means you saved me. You kept me from dying. But if there is a meaning to it, then what is it?”

Sadly, Keith says, “you’re bound to me now. You are stuck with my unpleasant company. You are of me, as I am of you.”

“I don’t know what that means.” Shiro admits. Honesty is easy when it comes to Keith, he learns. Honesty has never been this simple before. Honesty requires for him to lay his heart bare and to reveal all that plagues it, all that will soon stop the lub-dub of his heart and bring him to an early grave. “And you are not unpleasant. You’re just unique. Far different than everyone I have met.”

He walks until he is next to Shiro’s bed. He knees next to him and cups his face with a slender hand, slim digits spreading over his cheeks. His smile is tense as he says, “your kindness will be our undoing.”

There is no response that Shiro can think to that. _Of us both?_ He wishes to ask, but he holds his tongue. Keith urges him back to rest when he notices Shiro struggling to focus, and he leaves him be. When he wakes up once more, there is hot tea on the table next to him. He knows not how long it has been there. He only knows that it will never grow cold, nor will it be scalding forever.

A choir chants, far away, and Shiro gazes to his left. There is nothing there.

Keith lets him return home the moment he is recovered enough. His new hand is recognisably different, and the trek back home is tense but still safer than before – “you are of me,” Keith says, “they will learn to leave you. They will learn better. And you shall too, I hope.”

No matter what he tries to do, everyone notices how he comes back different. His arm is gone, replaced. The onyx burns brighter than the sun ever shall. Though inorganic, it blends in seamlessly into his shoulder – flesh and mineral as one, veins and nerves curving underneath the shell of his gemstone arm. Whispers, unavoidably, follow. Rumours bloom, and questions are left unasked. Answers never leave his lips, for he finds himself choked to give any. Even his parents cannot coax one out of him. He cries whenever they try, though he cannot tell them why. It hurts when they ask.

He wants to go back to the mountain.

Chanting fills his mind. Prayers soon follow.

His third departure happens in the middle of the night when everyone is deep into their slumber. He grabs only Keith’s dagger and leaves everything else behind. He is quiet as he steps out into the wilderness. The demons and angels all steer clear of him – his arm glows within the full moon, illuminated by the silvery rays and its own thistle-hue. People are praying, all around him. He buries his face in his palms, careful of the weapon he still holds. He breathes in, out, in – slow and careful, deliberate.

The oxygen in his lungs are not enough, yet are too much.

Boots sink into the dirt with each step he takes, as slow as a snail – a minuscule step at a time while his head throbs. Exhaustion drags at the back of his eyelids, trying to drag them shut so that he may pass out and be food for the beasts. His mind forces him to keep going, ignoring his screaming and tired body. The mountains are close.

Keith waits for him once more, with arms spread and eyes wet. He knows not why he looks at Shiro like that. His wings shine with bright yellow light, golden hue casting itself down upon the ground and standing stark against the dying earth. Decay and rot are what Shiro is familiar with, yet Keith brings to the world cleanliness and beauty in ways nothing else can ever emulate. He wishes to learn more of his life.

“You’ve returned.” he says. He takes Shiro into his arms, holds onto him as he collapses, and manoeuvres them around so that one arm is holding Shiro beneath his knees and the other cradling his upper body and neck. His head lolls against Keith’s chest. “And you need to rest.”

Shiro groans. His tongue is heavy within his mouth, his grip loose around the dagger yet it refuses to fall. His free arm lays upon his abdomen. Through sludge, he asks, “what has become of me?”

Keith closes his eyes. Tears slip down from beneath his shut eyelids.

“You crave order,” he says, “you crave order. You have become of me, you have returned to me. We are bound, as are the stars to the sky, until destruction becomes of us. But that,” he bends down, presses his lips to Shiro’s feverish forehead, and he murmurs against his heated skin, “that shall be a long time coming.”

Shiro does not return home, not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [ My twitter](https://twitter.com/voidromeda)   
>    
>  [My pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/flynn)


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